


Let's Do The Time Warp (Again)

by itsab



Category: Marvel, X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, F/M, Flirting, Mutants
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:41:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23804773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsab/pseuds/itsab
Summary: Mona Tyrell is a mutant, who’s traveled back in time to 1984 to save the life of her mother, and technically herself. Somehow, along the way she falls for the X-Men’s cute speedster; Peter Maximoff.
Relationships: Peter Maximoff/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 9





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is an AU.

The man you were watching, the one flitted about managing to do impossible things, was quietly washing his dishes in his home. Up to his elbow in suds, he swished his cloth over the large white plate in his hands, sloshing the water he was using. He was singing along to the radio, bopping along to the latest pop songs that were playing every day.

It happed suddenly, but as you watched the situation unfold, a smug smirk covered your lips. The plate seemed to jump from his hands, slipping from his grasp and seeming to fall in slow motion towards the ground. Immediately, his arm was almost touching the floor, the dish now safely on top of his palm. It didn’t seem possible for him to be able to move that fast, but considering this man’s mutation was the manipulation of time… Well, anything was possible in this universe.

Mutants ran rampant, with so many different gifts and abilities. People became superheroes, and other became villains. Anything was literally possible, now. No-one truly hid themselves from the fact the world was no longer black and white, but rather multicoloured, multicultural, and diverse as all hell.

The man you watched, through his apartment window, from the hotel you’d rented across the way, was inconspicuous with his gifts. He didn’t act rashly, and everything you’d observed about his reassured you that he was too logical to do something dramatic. He didn’t travel back and forth in months and years, no. Rather, he used his gifts and travelled minutes and seconds, stopping his dishes from breaking, or saving his dog from being run over.

For example; trying to save the world from a world war was a noble idea, but the events were far too vast and serious, as well as important in terms of world history, to even try and change. Vaguely, you wondered if he’d seen ‘Back to the Future’, and realised the implications of time travel. Changing big events was a dangerous, unpredictable, thing to do.

This guy, whose name you didn’t know, but was probably something generic like James, was exactly what you needed.

* * *

The next day you purposely bumped him into his, just outside his building. “Oh, I’m so sorry, sir!” You used the innocent looking face you’d been given to your advantage.

He had been walking his dog. It was a fat, old dog, who was probably nearly as old as you were. “No, it’s okay!” He’d wandered off, happily going about his day. You walked away with his gift, and he was none the wiser of what had occurred.

* * *

The man you’d copied the ability from had years to perfect his gift the way he had, he was in his mid-forties after all. He was able to move in time and space, you’d witnessed him do it, as he had probably been training for years to gain that kind of control over his gift.

You’d been at it a week.

While you’d been watching the man for weeks, you’d only been practicing with the ability for seven days. It was tricky to grasp, and not to mention scary. All week you’d lived in fear you’d be stuck in Jurassic times, and forced to survive amongst the dinosaurs that had once traversed this planet. Luckily, this hadn’t happened.

A ‘long jump’, as you decided to call it, meant travelling long distances through time. The very first experience you had of this had landed you in the middle of a huge field, surrounded by cattle and the vague noises of a battle nearby. Said noises shocked you so much that you accidentally ‘long jumped’ back to where you started. All of this took less than a minute, and you’d felt so exhausted afterwards that you’d slept for hours.

The next attempt landed you in 1942, seemingly much closer to the year you desired, but still quite far away. You spent about three minutes in 1942, moving around, scanning an old newspaper to determine the date, before going back to your hotel room. Shortly after, you passed out.

The jumps were extremely draining, and challenging, but you needed to be able to get to when you needed. It wasn’t an option for you to fail.

Each time you aimed for 1984, the year you needed to go to. Each time you got closer, and closer – 1954, 1956, 1965, 1970, 1976, and eventually 1980. By this point, you came to realisation that sooner or later you’d be where you needed to be, so you packed a small bag, ready. The bag contained some clothes you dumped in, general jeans and shirts that you hoped would not look out of place in the 80’s, a lot of money, your toiletries, various technologies you were taking for both comfort and to prove you that you are from the future, and the journal you needed with you at all times.

Unlike the man, whose name you probably should have learnt, you didn’t know how to move when you travelled. Rather you stayed in the same place you stood, and time passed around you. You’d been scared of this circumstance, and it was one of the reasons you’d decided to continue staying in this hotel after collecting the ability, as until 1999 (four years after your birth) it was an empty lot at the end of this town. This meant you didn’t randomly burst into someone’s home, or get attacked for being somewhere you weren’t supposed to be, and most importantly; you weren’t seen. The money you’d put in your bag was going to be able to get you where you needed to be, so the fact you didn’t move wasn’t a major issue.

Before you began the latest attempt at time travel, you took one last look around the room, grabbing two bottles of water and tossing them into your bag, before sighing. Slinging said bag over your shoulder, you breathed deeply and focussed all your energy into your ‘long jump’. Picturing the time you were aiming for, early spring 1984, you lashed out with the mutation, and disappeared.

* * *

You’d done it.

Digging through a bin, you’d found a newspaper on the top, informing that today, or yesterday, was the 4th of April 1984. The headline spoke of conspiracies about the events in Cairo, the year before – an important event in mutant history, the attempted take-over of the planet by Apocalypse. Feeling happy you finally made it, but beyond exhausted, you called a cab and asked to be taken to the nearest motel, praying you could stay awake until that point.

It turns out you couldn’t.

“Hey!” The driver shouted at you, waking you from the brief nap you’d been unintentionally taking. “Mitchell’s Motel. That’ll be $5.10.” Briefly, you were shocked at the price, before remembering your mom once complained how expensive things had gotten, compared to what she grew up with.

“Here,” You passed the man some notes, before informing him to keep the change, “Thanks.” Jumping out of the cab, you shouldered your bag before walking over to the motel, heading into the reception area. “Hi, I’d like a room for the night?”

“You have to be over 21 to rent a room for the night,” Said the attendant in a bored tone. He himself looked about 12, pimples and weird moustache included in said look.

“I’m 22, but thanks for the unnecessary information.” You flashed him your ID, pretending to be angrier than you were, so he’d wouldn’t pay attention to the fact your birth year was 11 years from now. “Now, I’d like a room, under the name of Mona Tyrell.” Whilst you were trying to be firm, it was obvious, even to this child, that you were exhausted and thus not to be messed with. The guy seemed uncomfortable with the fact you looked like death warmed over, or that you had a mean glare aimed at him, so he quickly cooperated with you, signing you in and handing over some keys for room 3. “Thank you for your help.” Honestly, you were being rude, but you were second away from passing out, so you walked rapidly to the room you’d rented. You managed to get inside, lock the door, dump your bag, and then promptly fell face forward onto the bed asleep.

The next morning, at 7.37, you were woken up by a knock on the door, “Miss Tyrell?” The pimply boy from the night before was at the door, his voice panicked slightly, “Miss Tyrell, you’re supposed to return your keys.” He’d informed you the night previous, shouting it as you’d walked away, that you’d be forced return the keys at 7, due to the room being booked for a large family reunion. “Miss!”

Stumbling over to the door, you groaned, before opening it, “Yeah, I’ll be out in a second.” You slammed the door on his shocked face, no regards for his feelings – you were not a morning person. After doing your business in the bathroom and changing your clothes to fresh, clean ones, you collected your things, making sure you put your dirty outfit back into your bag. You’d have to find somewhere to wash them, at some point. Walking over to the reception, you paid the 12-year-old the money you owed for staying the night, and gave him back the keys.

Across the road you spotted a diner, so your shuffled your way over there, now absolutely focussed on the fact you felt famished – come to think of it, you hadn’t eaten since the day before, and you’d used so much energy as well. Re-fuelling was necessary. You opened the door to the diner, immediately hearing the dishes clashing, orders being called out, and smelt greasy diner food being cooked and consumed. Before you entered fully, your eyes swept the room, looking for any sign that you wouldn’t be safe here. When you saw none, you walked over to the counter, and waved to the waitress, after quickly perusing the menu. “Hi, can I get a plate of eggs, scrambled, some toast, with a coffee, please?” The middle-aged waitress nodded, smiling as much as she could this early in the morning, before going to the kitchen and shouting your order out to the cook. When she returned, she had the coffee pot in one hand, and a cup in the other. As she filled it, you asked, “Do you guys have a phone book?” You saw her confused and slightly suspicious look, “I lost my uncle’s address.” She nodded, and grabbed it for you, “Thank you!”

When she handed you the book, you reached into your bag, pulling out the red, leather bound journal. It was slightly shabby, as it was decades old, but still; it was held together and no paged were missing.

The journal had been the catalyst of everything that was going on.

Your mother, author of the journal, had begun to write in it the year after you were born. When she had realised who you were. On the very first page was written the words; ‘EVERYTHING YOU NEED TO KNOW TO SAVE MY LIFE’.

Ironic, really, as said journal was the reason she was dead.


	2. Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an AU.

The journal was important to your mother, for very good reason.

She had been taking it to her lawyers on the last night of her life. It had been raining since the early morning, and by the end of the day it was practically torrential. She’d called ahead to the office, politely asking her solicitor to stay later than they usually would, so she could drop something off, before she journeyed home. It had just been finished, the pages filled to the brim with information and knowledge.

The night before her death, she’d penned the last words onto the paper, ‘YOU SAVED ME THEN, SO I COULD HAVE LIVED THIS LIFE.’.

Your mother was a scientist. Sally Tyrell left nothing to chance, and as a woman who firmly believed in science and in facts, she’d written a rather lengthy piece on the events of 1984. She even gone on to write about after that, detailing her years at university and her lab work (the trial and tribulations of working under a sexist old codger), meeting her sweet husband, and birthing you – her daughter. She was thorough, wanting to make sure you knew all the facts you’d ever possibly need, and had the best chance at doing what she said – saving her.

Her will had demanded that you receive the journal after her death, it had been mentioned several times, and when she was in that crash on her way home from the solicitors that night, you were given it three days later. Your father wasn’t long behind her, his grief taking him nearly one month later, leaving you with nothing in this world, but the tales in the journal, and your will to go on.

You’d read the journal avidly when you first gotten it, six months ago, and had memorised every event written down.

Now , all you had to do was what your mother said on the last page – now you had to save her life.

* * *

Your mutant gene descended through your father’s side of the family, meaning your mother was nothing but ‘normal’ – born and raised in complete normalcy, until her 15th year of life. Aside from her odd fascination with staring at people until they become uncomfortable (usually due to the vacant look that emerges after a minute or two), this was completely true. Sally Tyrell nee Benson was not a mutant.

Damien Tyrell, your father, however, was a mutant. He had the ability to communicate to animals, they could understand him and he could understand them. It was a fairly minor mutation, and nothing more than an ‘inconvenience’ sometimes, nothing life-threatening. Although, that mutation became a god-send when the family moved out of the city, to the small farm we’d inherited from his parents, after their untimely deaths.

Your abilities flared up at age 6, when you accidentally ‘copied’ your father’s mutation. The two of you had been collecting eggs from the hen house. Your dad had passed you a small basket full of eggs, when your hands had touched, barely – but it had been enough.

Bang. Just like that, you had his ability.

Half an hour later, your dad went looking for you, and found you talking to the goats, having an in-depth discussion on how nice the weather was that day. Originally, your parents thought that was your ability, that maybe you were the same as your father. They weren’t too concerned. After all your father could easily teach you how to deal with the mutation, and it wasn’t a risk on your life.

Weeks later, however, on your first day of a new year at school, you picked up a new ability. This one was incredibly dangerous.

Your teacher, a sweet woman well into her elderly years, had placed a palm onto your back to comfort you after you’d tripped over. Her fingers had just brushed the back of your neck, and – bang. Fire had erupted from your palms, like an uncontrollable volcano. Your young body had felt a burning heat, that you can still easily recall to this day, travel along your sides. The fire had been burning hot, hotter than the sun your child-mind assumed. The children in the class, the ones you’d been friend with, screamed and fled, evacuating the premises as fast as their little legs could carry them. The classroom had begun burning down around you, the drawings on the walls going reduced to kindling, the plastic tables and chairs all melting beyond repair. And all with you still trapped in the middle of it.

To this day, you remembered the fear that had gripped your body, your young being coming to the realisation that you might die. The concept of one’s own mortality is not a common thought for a child, yet there you had sat, thinking you were a goner. As the flames had danced around you wildly, uncontrollable by you, you cried out helplessly – desperate for anyone to save you. Just before the flames fully engulfed you, the elderly teacher dispelled it. You had suddenly been sitting on the floor of a very charred room, cuddled into the chest of said teacher, crying out in agony, various body parts burnt, yet already slowly healing.

The teacher, Ms. Olivia Friedman, began to teach you how to control her gift, immediately you’d recovered. She informed you of the best ways to regulate the mutation, and Ms. Friedman trained you until you could truly harness it, now free from pain when this occurred. An aspect of her powers was that her skin and body had, over time, become fire-conductive, but wouldn’t allow itself to be burnt, either – something you’d gained too.

Ms. Friedman, along with your rightfully worried parents, figured out that your mutation had to be more than what they originally though it was, and then concluded that it had to be the ability to copy others mutation.

Later on, after months of being home-schooled and being privately trained by Ms. Friedman, your parents reluctantly put you back into public schooling, now that you could somewhat control your gifts. No random fires started, and no small critter accidents. They let you go back, with the condition that you refrain from touching any other child, your mother and father scared anyone could have frightening or dangerous gift that you’d be forced to take on. A month into the re-introduction to society and they still weren’t too sure about you going to school, both worried about what could happen if other children, or parents, or the police, realised what you were – about what you could do. Luckily, you were young, and so were the children in your class, so they didn’t really know what had happened.

Still… it took weeks until any child talked to you.

That was when you realised you had to keep a lid on your powers, that no-one else needed to find out – not only would you be scorned by non-mutants, but perhaps you’d be in danger in other ways. Ms. Freidman had once told you stories of bad men taking away people to experiment on them, mutants, and not too long ago either.

* * *

Travelling via taxi, across state lines wasn’t a viable way to travel to the place you needed to go. For this reason, when you’d left that motel – well, technically, when you left that diner – you walked to the nearest bus stop, and hopped on it until you got to the closest bus terminal, then bought a one-way ticket to Westchester, New York.

Your mother had written, ‘IT BEGAN IN NEW YORK’, in one of the first pages of the journal, so that’s where you were going.

At first, this had confused you greatly. According to your oldest memories, you had only lived on that small farm, in the backyard of California. And, apart from that, your parents had only lived in the state, too. Your father had lived in Los Angeles, and your mother met you father out in Pasadena – she ran into him outside Caltech. But, as you read the journal, you found out that your mother had grown up in one of the boroughs of New York, not the suburbs of California. It turns out, her whole family had always lived in, and around, the state of New York for generations.

Sally Benson, the woman your mother was before her marriage, was an aspect that had always been unknown to you. You’d only ever known Sally Tyrell, your married mother, and she certainly never spoke of her past to you – not even when you asked. Now, you see it as her attempt to not change the delicate balance of time, but when you’d been a teen it had been the cause of many issues between you two. The younger version of yourself didn’t see the problem in finding out more about your mother, about her struggles that founded who she became, but now you saw her acts as her trying to preserve her reality.

Despite your initial confusion over the location the beginning of this tale takes place, it eventually came to you. After all, you’d had many friends go the ‘Xavier Institute for Higher Learning’, or ‘Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters’, as it is known as in the 1984-time-period you were currently in.

The bus got to Westchester, just shy of a full day later.

Whilst the bus fare hadn’t been too hefty, the taxi fare to the actual gated of the mansion was. An oddity to you, considering how little you had to pay earlier, but you assumed that perhaps it had to do with the region you were in? Honestly, you should have just hi-jacked a car, like in your original plan. Old cars or not, you could still drive, your father taught you on the farm’s tractor when you were 16, and you still had a license. The only reason you didn’t was because whilst a pre-pubescent child working at a motel wouldn’t look closely, a police officer would – and if you were pulled over, you’d be sent to a lock-up not long after, for having a ‘phony’ ID, as well as driving a stolen vehicle.

Silently, you marvelled at the building in front of you, wondering just how rich the Professor actually was. You’d passed a few other mansions on the way here, and they’d looked nice (very nice), but they paled in comparison to this place. There seemed to be about three levels to the building, and looking at it sideways, it was huge. Honestly, this could be the set of a movie, maybe a period film…

Vaguely, you thought of your friend, Tash, who’d been sent off to this place in the late 2000’s, to harness his powers. You wonder if you’d ever see him again? You let out a sigh, probably not.

You heaved the bag over your shoulder, and walked up the steps, before arriving at the large wooden front doors, knocking loudly. To walk right in would be rude, but the fact it was about 10 in the morning, you wondered if anyone could even hear your knock – people would most probably be in the middle of classes, after all. Just as you were going to knock a second time, the large slab of wood swung open noiselessly.

It revealed a boy. “What’s up, sweets?” A silvery-grey haired guy stood in the doorway, eating a twinkie. He was dressed oddly, with a silver faux-leather jacket… and goggles. You wondered if this was a usual getup in the 80’s.

“I’m here to see the Professor? Uh, Professor Charles Xavier?” You were hesitant to talk to him, if you were honest. You never know who has what mutation, and that’s a scary thing when it comes to you. What if he was a telepath, and could read your mind? It might hinder your plans. He wasn’t saying anything in return, so you prompted him, “Can I come in?”

The guy shoved the rest of his twinkie into his mouth, and began to talk around the crumbs, “Sure, I’ll take you to his office.” Although, you only somewhat heard him, and only got the gist of what he was saying when he waved for you to follow him. Apparently, you were to follow him. Silver-guy led you down the main hallway, which you guessed had once been a beautiful entryway for this home, before turning left and leading you to the door at the end of the hall. As you walked, you looked at the photographs on the walls, many showing students winning awards, or using their gifts. “Here it is.” Silver-hair-guy gestured dramatically towards the door, and you felt your lips twitch in an attempt to smile.

You went to knock on the door, but paused to look at the person next to you, “Thanks for show me here.” It was a slightly awkward attempt by you to dismiss him.

“No problem, sweet-cheeks.” He winked at you cheekily, causing you to roll your eyes in slight irritation, although your heart rate did seem to pick up slightly. What? He was cute. The guy looked about ready to walk away, before he turned back to you, “My names Peter Maximoff, if you need me later.”

“I doubt that I will,” You smiled at him, a little sarcastically now, before turning back to the office door, “Bye.” You needed to talk to the Professor, you needed to get ahead of the events that were going to take place soon.

“What? You not gonna tell me your name?” Peter asked, moving closer to you quickly, “Bit rude, sweets. After I led you all the way here, out of the kindness in my heart!”

You let out a sharp breath, and sent him a glower, “Look, I’m busy, can you leave?”

“Tell me your name, please?” His tone changed, seeming to lose the cockiness of the past minute. It felt like he was being genuine…

Either way, “Go away-”

“Miss Tyrell?” The English voice called, from the other side of the door that lay in front of you, “Are you going to talk outside my door all day, or enter?” The voice questioned you, sounding amused at the small argument he could hear. You could hear the laughter in the voice, laughing at you and Peter, and your disagreement. His amusement made you smile a little.

It reminded you of your father’s voice, just without the random accent.

“Saved by the bell, sweets.” Peter began to back away, walking backwards, a cute smile on his face, still staring at you. “Catch you later, sweet-cheeks.” He winked at you, then suddenly he was gone. Damn, he was fast.

Sighing, you put your hand to the door, ready to knock again, when the voice rang out once more, laughter still clear in the tone, “Just come in, Miss Tyrell.”


End file.
